Last Stand on Archos
by Sir Winter
Summary: The 2nd Praetorian Guard were just a 100 battered and bruised Imperial Guardsmen against insurmountable odds. This is their story. One-Shot, Reviews Welcomed.


Disclaimer: I own none of Games Workshops Warhammer 40K Franchise or any other thing associated with Games Workshop.

Name: Alexander Peregrine

Gender: Male

Age: 52

Rank: Captain

Regiment: 2nd Praetorian Guard

Home-world: Praetoria

The Captain chuckled as he looked at the first page of his file. Sat down, his bolt pistol lain on the desk in front of him, on the right side of said desk was said bolt pistol and on the left side was his Pith Helmet. Drawing a fountain pen, Captain Peregrine signed his report and then slid it into the back of the dossier. Setting it down, he let out a long sigh. Finally, the paperwork was done, he'd detailed the previous days skirmish. Damned Xenos, they seemed to be testing the Praetorian Guard positions weakness. Which was to say, weak. No artillery support. No heavy weapons. Just 100 men and their Lasguns and side arms. Not a single plasma pistol and the Commissar had died in the last battle, as had, 95% of the regiment. Including the whole command, the attached specialists and the transports. It could all be summed up with one word.

Bugger.

The Captain ran his right hand through his dark brown hair, before smoothening it with a comb. Appearance was paramount in the Praetorian Guards. He caught himself in the mirror. Violet eyes, a brown pencil thin moustache, a prosthetic right hand from halfway above the elbow upwards, or downwards if the hand was pointed down to the floor. 5ft 9inches of a middle-aged man whose health wasn't lacking for the usual people of age, but not exactly the epitome of a soldier. He could handle whatever was thrown at him. So long as it wasn't running for more than a mile and a half, along with hand to hand combat with someone half his age. But other than that he was rather fit for his age, relatively fit that is.

He stood up, looking over his roman nose at the milling soldiers visible through the open tent door. Slipping on his pith helmet and holstering his bolt pistol. The Captain walked over to the mirror and checked his appearance. Black highly shined leather boots, dark blue trousers with a vertical scarlet stripe on the outside leg. A white tee-shirt tucked into his trousers. Which wasn't visible as over it was the infamous scarlet tunic. On either of his shoulders were three pips. Denoting him as a Captain. The White belt, around the waist and around his right shoulder from the left side of his hip. It was difficult to put into words exactly how the belt went. The yellow epaulettes, The few adornments on his belt. His steel water canteen, the binocular holder(as it was referred to in the Captains vocabulary) and the ammo pouches.

A Power sword was sheathed and hung from the right hand side. His bolt pistol was holstered on his left hand side. Finally there was his pith helmet. A rather simple helmet in the standards of other Imperial Guard helmets. A brown leather chinstrap, the helmet interior was padded for comfort and the outside was a light cream colour with the silver badge which displayed the Regiments symbol and the Imperial Aquila below it. A sort of reminder that the Praetorian Guard were borne upon the back of the Imperium and thus it was their duty to support it. Finally came the leather strip above the rim but below the badge. The Captain didn't know what it was there for, decoration probably.

A Lasgun fired.

Alexander's attention snapped to the crackle of fire that returned the shot. He burst outside, drawing his bolt into his right hand and then his power sword into his left hand. He sprinted over to his self-designated position. The calls to arm were already being relayed around the camp by the NCO's. For whom Alexander was thankful he had such damned good men. Reaching his position. The captain surveyed the enemy force. The position was relatively defensible, a whole abandoned town, with the bulk of the forces garrisoned in the Church, which had a wall around the front in a semi-circle. A weak wall, so it had been reinforced with metal sheets and sandbags with Firing steps to aid the men, Inside the semi-circle was the camp where the captain had his tent located. Intelligence reports had been lenient and suggested that the enemy possessed no vehicles. Just more long-ranged weaponry and a whole load of infantry.

Damn Kroots.

"Alright men. Listen up. We're being attacked and I'm afraid I'm going to have to say that this will be our last fight. All or nothing. We are Praetorians! We'll face this like we faced the Eldar at Quelas. That is to say, with our backs to the wall, side-to-side and a hymn on our lips. Say your prayers. Today we do what the Imperial Guard has done since the birth of this great Imperium. We stand and we hold the line, no matter what is thrown at us. For the Emperor!"

A cheer went up. The men knew that Captain Peregrine was blunt, he didn't give false hope. If it was bleak, then it was bleak. Turning to face the approaching force. His eyes scanned the incoming Kroot auxiliaries, then he bellowed his orders.

"Wait until they're at 100 yards lads. And let off a volley, then 50 yards and then until you can see the whites of their eyes. Until they reach that. Fix Bayonets!"

The sergeants relayed the orders. Bayonets scraped out of their scabbards. A noise that seemed to briefly slow time for the Captain. He looked around, spied a soldier, a boy, clearly no more than the age of fifteen. Bone-white skin betraying his fear, but still staying in his position. Then the Kroot cried a horrible screech and doubled their pace. The captain broke out from his stupor. His military mind now kicking in, like it always did, it hadn't failed him yet.

"Take Aim! FIRE!"

The harsh bark of the Lasguns pummelled through the air. Felling a number of the Xenos, The Captain would fire his Bolt Pistol now and then, a Kroots head seemingly exploding or a fist sized hole in its chest in the aftermath of each shot. The whole universe seemed to quieten for a brief moment, before the orders were shouted again.

"Take Aim! FIRE!"

Still the Kroots pressed onwards. His Magazine empty, The Captain reloaded and waited until the last moment before levelling his bolt pistol and shouting for the last time.

"FIRE!"

He fired a single shot before deflecting a jab by a Kroot with his sword, sliced off the head of said Kroot. Before meeting another, deigning to simply block a blow and reply with his Bolt Pistol. All around him similar fights were going on, but none were as fierce as the Captain's fight for survival. A parry, feint and then a slicing of the throat before moving on to another Kroot who leaped at him. Slowly, but surely, the sheer number of enemy forces drove the defenders back. Step, by step, by bloody step. Until at last only fifty men remained. The pile of Kroot bodies were piled in the doorway and among the screams and the blood-soaked ground, the fight continued. For a while, the battle raged over the doorway, the sheer press of Kroots eventually toppling over the makeshift barricade and a torrent of Xenos flowed into the hall. Small knots of men formed around the cathedral. Captain Peregrine stood on the altar, Clasped in one hand was the regimental standard, raised high and soaked in blood, but not fallen. Twenty three men stood and faced the enemy. The last of the praetorians, the rest lay dead or dying.

The hallowed hall of the cathedral was silent for a brief moment, defender and attacker paused to look at each other. Before finally the Kroots called their war cry and leapt forwards. The Praetorians too called their war cry. It was only three hours until dawn.

"For the Emperor, the Imperium and Praetoria!"

The Fighting became more vicious, more brutal, more bloody. The Kroot flood began to dwindle, but so too did the Praetorians. Until at last three men stood tall, above a pile of bodies, of both Human and Xenos. Three men against one hundred and fifty. A lucky stab got Corporal Jenkins, but he took ten Kroots with him in the last moments before he fell. Sergeant-Major Smith bellowed and brawled, until at last he was swarmed. But above them All, Captain Peregrine continued his fight, the standard still clasped in his left hand, his sword in his right. His Bolt pistol lay at the foot of the pile, the barrel glowing from the amount of rounds it had fired. A steady and heavy wisp of steam flowing from the empty pistol as hot air met cold air.

Twenty against one.

"Come on you Xenos Bastards!"

The Captain roared the challenge and the battle entered its closing stages. The Kroot died, the captain bled and fought on, until at last only two remained, the Captain and a single, fearsome and deadly Kroot. The Duel was long and began with a thrust by the Kroot, a parry, before the bladed rifle of the Xenos swung up only to meet the sword. Whilst it seemed to be happening in Both an Eternity and mere moments, the fight was slow, two, tired warriors, slugging it out until at last the Kroot got in a lucky strike, The Captain bellowed in pain, only for a blade to bury itself in his side, blood gushed out. The Kroot raised its weapon and proclaimed its victory.

The Captain made a proclamation of his own, With one final drop of energy, his sword brought itself upwards and erupted from the Kroots chest. The surprised Xenos looked down and then collapsed to its knees and onto its side, defeated. Captain Peregrine closed his eyes, the blood having stopped gushing and now simply dripping onto the floor, as the drips became slower, the Captains eyes became heavier. He leaned on the standard, exhausted, bloodied and broken, but unbowed. He let out a small smile, before clearing his face of all expression and allowed himself to close his eyes.

As his eyes closed, he saw the sun rise, lighting the hall, then he saw nothing.

"Iron hands! Enemy forces are estimated to be in the area of 5,000 Kroot Mercenaries. The 2nd Praetorian Guard have already been deployed. The Praetorians currently number a measly 100 soldiers and their commanding officer. We should expect no help from them, but nonetheless we're to land at their position, the St. Walker cathedral. Alright, all Drop Pods go!"

The 4th Company streamed down like rain, a fiery rain, lighting the sky with orange streaks as they crashed into the outskirts of the Hive. It didn't take long before the Company came across the battlefield. Silence fell, smoke rose here and there from exploded Lasguns and bodies were strewn everywhere, scarlet tunics breaking the sea of brown and green. The Iron Hands looked at Xenos with distaste and the Praetorian dead with reverence. Chaplain Augustus stepped through the doorway and nearly fell to his knees at the sight before him.

Death.

It was everywhere, no space on the floor was free of it, the blood was still fresh in some places, the bodies still warm by the thermal signatures given off. The Chaplain forced himself forwards. The Ground became an incline and finally he stood face-to-face with a dead officer, a pencil thing moustache, kind features and closed eyes, attached to his Tunic were a paltry few medals compared to what the Chaplain had seen on the breasts of other Imperial Guard officer, but each one was more prestigious than the last. The Duellist Honours, The Triple Skull, The Winged Skull and The Honorifica Imperialis. The Chaplain raised his hand to touch the final medal, revered even among Space Marines, then lowered it. He turned to look at the rest of the Company. Who were looking at the scene as well. Stunned and in total and revered silence, 100 Imperial Guardsmen had given their lives to destroy an entire Kroot force of 5000. This was unparalleled, not even in the history of the Iron Hands had such a feat been accomplished. The Chaplain opened his mouth, then closed it. He wore no helmet, so this act was noticed, it was impossible for a Chaplain not to find words for the occasion. Augustus then opened his mouth again and spoke again, his voice a simple quiet whisper, but it broke through the silent air like thunder in a storm.

"This Sacrifice, words cannot express it. So I'll simply say we find every single Praetorian's body and we. Well, we give them a funeral worthy of such heroes."

The Iron Hands nodded and then set to work. Augustus turned to look at the Officer, a mere captain. To Augustus this man should have been a Lord Solar. If the man had been a space marine, who knows what legends this Captain would have accomplished. Then with calm hands, The Chaplain reached out and gently, like a father holds his child, began to lie the Captain down to rest, A small breeze passed through the hall, for a moment it stirred the blood-soaked Standard, and drifted across the departed Captains head, causing a strand of stray hair to move. Then all was still again.

Name: Alexander Peregrine

Gender: Male

Age: 52 - Deceased

Rank: General – Posthumous Promotion

Regiment: 2nd Praetorian Guard

Home-world: Praetoria

Honours Awarded Whilst alive: The Crimson Skull, The Duellist Honours, The Triple Skull, The Winged Skull and the Honorifica Imperialis.

Honours Awarded Posthumously: The Medallion Crimson and The Order of St. Ollanius Pius.

Added Notes: Captain M. Peregrine served in Eight Imperial Guard Campaigns, Earning an Honour in each Campaign. Died in the revered Last Stand on Archos.

End of File.

A.N: Well, there it is, the updated chapter. Leave a review if you wish.


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